


A Lust For Blood and Earth-Women

by pennywife



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Sex, Cruelty, Dirty Talk, Dominant Pennywise (IT), Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mind Manipulation, Other, POV Female Character, Painful Sex, Pennywise (IT) Being an Asshole, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Life Choices, Prostitution, Reader-Insert, Sex for Favors, Slut Shaming, Suicidal Thoughts, Telepathic Bondage, Typos, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: “Would you like to make a deal?”





	1. Let’s Make a Deal

You take a look around the damp, dark space that surrounds you. Unease dances through the back of your mind, pulling your arms in a little closer when out of the corner of your eye you spot the vast array of power-tools lying conspicuously on an old shelf by your shoulder. There’s no way out of this garage without turning on the lateral-running doors, and you specifically remember the husband sliding the opener into his pocket before heading back into the house. You don’t even have to check to see whether or not he locked that door as well— the joyous screaming of small, hyper toddlers enough to tell you that a family-man would never let an outsider creep into his house without him knowing. But then again, he did hire a strange woman on the internet to watch him fuck his wife while his children are asleep in the next room, so maybe keeping danger away from his family isn’t exactly one of his top priorities.

There’s a little voice in your head hissing for you to grab a screwdriver and slide it into the back of your shorts, just in case that mountain of a man comes back out wielding an axe in his grip. It tells you to protect yourself, to defend yourself, but the sick truth is that you just really don’t seem to give all that much of a shit. If he turns on you, he turns on you, and it’s as simple and as inevitable as that.

Maybe it’s the fact that you can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something that wasn’t expired. Maybe it’s that carton of milk left rotting in your fridge, or the roach that crawled across the toe of your shoe as you pinned your hair up in curls. Maybe it’s the dead grass around a trailer that reeks of sulfur from the inside out, or the fiend of an uncle that swears he has no idea where the fuck all the money has gone. Maybe it’s all the blood you coughed up the other day into the kitchen sink, or the fact that your bank account is just as empty as the hole that aches in your chest.

Whatever the reason, you can feel it in your gut that being murdered by a man in the garage of his luxurious house wouldn’t be the worst way for you to go. You might even end up on the local news, if someone at home is sober enough to actually report you missing this time.

The door swings open all at once beside you. A broad face appears, weathered with age, mouth panting breathless as he steps into the garage.

“Sorry about all this. She’s just uh... Well, we’re just trying to get the boys down before we all uh... You know.”

“That’s okay.” You tell the stranger with a forced smile, though what you’d like to say instead is for him to just give you your fucking money already so you can stop picturing it again and again in your head. 

He moves in to stand beside you. His hands are clasped down in front of the crotch of his jeans, golden band wrapped far too tight around his stout finger. At first you’re afraid he’s about to try and breach your sacred contract of no-touching-allowed, but it becomes suddenly clear that he’s only here to hide from his sons. 

After a few minutes the man clears his throat. He quirks a brow at you, leaning forward to stand on his toes. “So uh... Do you go to school around here or...?”

“Nope.” You answer, trying not to let the bitterness seep through your voice.

“Huh.” A good hearted chuckle bubbles up in the back of his throat. “Figured a girl like you’d be in a sorority. You know, little pink dresses, those t-shirts with the monograms on ‘em.”

You think he’s trying to call you pretty, in some uncomfortable middle-aged father type of way. All you can do is fake a polite laugh, and try not to let on to the fact that you’d rather be anywhere else on this Earth than here beside him.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” The husband’s eyes light up, and he suddenly leans back enough to wrench his arm around to the back-pocket of his pants. “Here, just uh... Just let me go ahead and get this out for you now before Julie sees.”

You had almost forgotten that little detail, the fact that the wife is supposed to be none the wiser about just why it is that a girl like you was so willing to come over and do this. Just some freaky little college student with bottle-dyed hair he’d met during one of his visits to campus, and not someone who wouldn’t even be here if her spouse hadn’t put up an ad on Craigslist.

When at last that old suede wallet finally comes out of the safety of his pocket, you swear you can hear a chorus of angels singing from up above the roof. The edges are cracked and faded, fat and filled to the brim with what you can see now are dozens of one-hundred dollar bills. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of it, watching his thick fingers gracelessly curl around the thing you need most in this world. More than anything you’d like to just reach out and snatch it, Eve with her fruit, and sprint all the way back to the trailer park of Eden to watch yourself rot along side of it.

“How’s about a hundred now, and a hundred after? That way you don’t think I’m trying to uh... trying to sc—“

His tongue stills in his mouth. He hears it before you can, a hound with its ears pricked; the sound of his wife’s heels heading straight toward the door. It swings out again without warning, slamming against the wall of the garage with the swiftness of someone who wants to get out of here just as fiercely as you do. You could almost laugh at it, the look on that pretty wife’s face, when you see the husband panicking out of the corner of your eye. In one swift moment, one terrible tick from the hand of a clock, he hides the billfold behind his back and shoves it deep down into his jeans.

Your eyes follow it there. Wanting, yearning aching. You remind yourself that there’s still time left yet, that he can still pay you after the deed has been signed with pearled beads of cum, but the sight of it so far away from your reach is almost too much to bear.

The wife doesn’t even look at you. Her auburn hair a tangle mess at the top of her head, she looks even more haggard than a half an hour ago when she had stepped out to shake your hand. She lets out a loud huff of air, a flat palm slapping down heavy against her thigh.

“I just... I don’t know what to do. I’m not gonna be able to get them down and it’s getting really late.” Head shaking, tongue clucking, her voice is high and slow as it falls from her mouth. “I think we’re just gonna have to call a rain-check for tonight.”

The husband shoots you a worried glance, and your heart turns to ice in your chest.

The image of that wallet closing shut like the stone lid of a coffin flips around again and again like a projector that’s just ran out of film. The sound rings out in your head in violent stabs to your eardrums, reminding you that this is it. All that time you spent washing your hair and shaving your cunt and painting your face will be for nothing if that husband doesn’t get you alone again so that he can pay his promised cancellation-fee. The risk you took walking here, all alone in your little black heels; it will all have been for nothing.

When they ask to reschedule, you’re sure to force your lips back over your teeth like a good little girl. There’s no use spitting venom at someone who can, and likely will, still pay you the next time they get the urge to do this type of thing. Shoulders slumped, feet scraping against the concrete as you turn around to leave, you wait for the whirring door of the garage to wheel open.

The husband doesn’t offer you a ride, and in honesty you really hadn’t expected him to. He knows how far away you live from this side of Derry, how heavy the air is with the promise of rain, and still he pretends to not even notice you as he shepherds you off from the warmth of his garage.

By now the street lamps are on. The frigid black mouth of a ravenous autumn night swallows you up as you begin your trek back, the familiar long walk of shame to a home that will never really be a home. The icy air laps at the length of your bare legs, a searching tongue, and it makes every footstep forward that much harder to take. You’re no stranger to the cold, but the fear of rainfall is enough to send your heels clacking against the pavement as you try to beat the storm.

In the end it isn’t enough. It never is. A roll of thunder paves the way, and the sky opens up above you to soak you right to the fucking bone. A bolt of lightning sprints across the sky. The flash of hot white light follows suit, and another wave of sound that almost matches the rumbling below the curved edge of your ribcage.

You hang your head and let out a soft whine. If God is real, He is either totally impotent, or an absolute asshole; and you curse His name out from under your breath.

All you have to do is make it back home. You’ll be warm there, and safe, and even if your family is too strung out to notice that you’re there, you’ll still be with them. There’ll be no crying over an empty stomach tonight. You’ll be fine. Things will always turn out the way that they’re supposed to.

A street lamp dies across the street as you walk beside it. You stare at the expanse of darkness it left behind, wondering how frightening it would be for the next one to burn out as well, when by some slip of chance it does exactly that as you pass on by. Then another. Then another.

Then another. 

A rush of ice-water rinses through your veins, and you silently swear at yourself for being such a goddamn coward. You brace yourself for it to happen one last time as you reach the corner, only this time when the light goes off the entire bulb shatters with it. You can’t help but let out a little yelp in surprise, watching the shards of glass fall steadily down towards the wet concrete below. Feet, already mangled with angry white blisters, stutter to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. 

There’s something in the storm drain.

Two eyes narrow and glint like a feline predator’s in the darkness; watching you, calculating every ragged breath and trembling of muscles as you bring a hand to your chest. For some reason the first word your mind goes to is sewer-gator, because what, but a hideous reptile, could ever wear a pair of eyes as frightening as those?

“Hiya, Kiddo.”

A gasp and a sharp step back nearly earn you a fall as your heel catches against a crack in the sidewalk. Your arms fling out by your hips in big swooping motions, like a raven trying to take flight as you steady yourself back up straight on your feet.

It steps into the pale light from the streetlight above you, beams hardly able to reach that far across the street. Your breath hitches in your throat. Skin white as bone, you can only tell that it’s supposed to be some semblance of a human-being, though the head and the brows are all wrong. It looks like a mistake— some beautiful sculpture that was never meant to look like this. Scarlet bleeds from its eyes, pointed nose painted with an immaculacy you’ve only ever seen on the blurred lines of your television screen.

It’s supposed to be a clown. It’s supposed to be some horrifying, white-dressed clown from long ago; like one of those eerie dolls your grandmother would never let you play with as a little girl.

“Would you like a balloon?” The stranger’s voice is full of equal parts venom and song, bouncing and going higher at the end of his question.

You don’t answer. You _can’t._ You’re far too busy staring at the rounded edges of his features, trying to tell whether or not you’re staring at a mask or a face. Carefully, you take a step down onto the street that leads over towards him. You don’t want to; you have to. There’s some undeniable pull in the way that his eyes don’t look apart of himself, like a snake luring in a small child to its edge of the jungle. Before you even look down again, you’re already standing in the center of the road.

From here you can hear him breathing. God, that breathing. It’s so unusual and harsh as it racks his costume-laden frame, a ravenous animal panting and waiting behind the bars of its cage. Only, there are no metal bars separating this stranger from you. Only a few more steps closer, and you’re certain he could reach out and grab you if he wanted to.

“What are you doing down in the storm drain?” You ask with a mouth full of thick saliva, only to be met with silence.

His face doesn’t move. His eyes though, bright and filled with something you cannot explain with words, travel up the length of your bare legs to rest at curve of your neck. The clown smiles pleasantly. It’s as if he were looking for you, waiting for you, and is happily surprised at the sight that lays before him.

A step forward. You can’t help it. 

A long arm, draped in ashen fabric, slithers out from the depths of the drain.

“Would you like a balloon?” The clown repeats, grinning with his jackal eyes.

There’s a frightened bird trapped in the walls of your ribs. It is screaming, along with every fiber of your body, for you to turn around and just run. You’re a hairline away from spitting back, “Of course I don’t want a fucking balloon you stupid creep,” when you see that the object in his palm is anything else than a shiny red sphere of helium and rubber.

Curiosity brings you forward, and down onto your knees in front of the drain. You aren’t close enough for him to try and reach for you, not yet, but you can tell exactly what he has clutched between the silk of his gloves. The faded suede, the crumpled edges, the bills overflowing and nearly spilling out from their pockets; it’s the husband’s wallet from before.

“H-how did you... How did you get this?”

There’s no answer. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know how. From this close up, you can see the drool spilling down the edge of his chin, eyes like a broken toy’s as he stares in two different directions. If this thing is real, and not just some figment of your tortured imagination, he is certainly not of this world. You think about scooting back away from him, but you’re too busy staring at that billfold like it’s your goddamn lifeline, because in all hones it is, and it looks even more full than it had been in that man’s garage. 

A gloved hand, bigger than any you’ve ever seen before in your life, holds out the wallet like something priceless on a silver platter.

“Listen to me, Woman, for what I speak is true. All of this I will give to you; all of your hopes and wishes and dreams—”

There’s no way to stop yourself. You reach for it with an almost dream-like slowness, and the second your fingertip touches the edge of the suede the clown rips it back away.

“—If only you would make just the slightest little deal with me.”

Some odd fusion of a chuckle and a scoff spills free from the base of your chest. You rise back up onto your feet with a grunt, dusting the tiny pebbles buried into the skin of your knees. You take a step away it, straightening your spine as you cross your hands over your chest.

“What, are you supposed to be like ‘ _The Devil_ ’ or something? Is that what we’re playing here?”

Crystalline bubbles of laughter come free from the pit of his chest. Rabbit-teeth pressing against the dramatic slope of his bottom lip, he gives you a smirk that looks far more frightening than you think it’s supposed to.

“I can be anything you want me to be.”

You stare at him. He stares right back, frozen and suspended in time. You can still feel your heart thudding in your chest, pumping up warm blood behind your drenched and freezing skin, but after a while you can’t help but consider the possibility of giving in.

A small, defeated sigh escapes the walls of your lungs. “What do you want from me?”

“A night,” he grins, cocking his head to the side before adding, “with you.”

“A night _with me?”_ It comes out with a laugh, though you certainly hadn’t meant for it to.

The clown nods enthusiastically, and you can see now the tufts of orange hair at the top of his unnaturally large skull. It’s strange, but he suddenly doesn’t look so frightening to you anymore. Even his eyes, which you had sworn were only just yellow, are now as bright and as beautiful as any blue irises you’ve ever seen.

“Look, Mister. I’ve never in my life fucked someone for money. I’ve done things, sure but... But...” Your eyes drop back down to the wallet clutched protectively in his hand. Your shoulders follow, loosening and falling from their hardened positions at the base of your neck. “But Goddamn it if my resolve sure isn’t running on thin ice.”

The clown lets out another laugh. There’s something about the way it twists off at the end, makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck just to hear it. You get the feeling that you never had the strength to refuse an offer like this, that he knew that when he called you over, and that he’s preying upon a weakness in yourself that you can’t even resent. You need that money. You need anything that you can get.

“How do I even know how much is in that thing?”

The stranger furrows his brows. It takes him a second to answer, as if he doesn’t understand what you’re asking. Then he does, and his eyes gleam even brighter in the shadows.

“Oh, there will be much more than only this... Silly Little Thing. I can give you anything you would like... Anything, anything at all.”

Pictures light up the back of your mind; magic, ethereal. Skin slick with coconut oil and darkened by the sun. The feeling of being clean again; silver, opal, perfume pooling at the space between your collarbones. A yard that isn’t littered with dog-shit and hypodermic needles.

This clown, this being, he has the power to show you these things. Surely, yes surely, you think, as your pupils black out the colored rings of your eyes, he truly does have the power to give them to you.

“Just one little night!” He exclaims, voice full of poison and honey as he brings the wallet in closer. “Tell me, Child. What human has never dreamed of the chance to _fuck a God?”_

Your lips are dry. His eyes follow your tongue as you wet them, full of lust and hunger.

“What do I have to do? When I... When we...?”

His face changes. It hardens somehow, and you swear the whites of his eyes weren’t that dark before.

“Anything that I want.” He hisses, as if you were stupid for even asking. “Until the sun rises above the horizon, you will be _mine,_ and I will do anything with you that I desire... I will fuck you in ways you have never even imagined... And when it is all over, you will be a fat, happy, and wealthy woman indeed.”

The clown’s arm shoots back out of the sewer so quickly you almost scream. It’s the opposite hand, the one without the wallet, and he offers it out to you like an old and reliable friend.

“What’d’ya say, Kiddo?” He pulls his lip between his teeth. “Would you like to make a deal?”

You stare at the pristine fabric of his glove. Something in a storm drain should never look so clean, and as you imagine yourself reaching out only to have your arm ripped off, you notice it doesn’t even look wet. Your skin prickles.

 _Power,_ you realize, as you stare deep into his eyes. Power unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

Your hand goes out to meet his own, and you can’t help but shudder at the way his fingers wrap around your wrist. 

“Yes.” You answer at last, and the voice that spills forth no longer sounds like your own. “Yes, we... We have a deal.”


	2. Anything At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!! Heavy dubcon stuff here! There’s also a line in here that could be taken as Pennywise having done some non-con stuff with women in the past but it definitely wasn’t meant that way!!! All of his past partners were consensual lol but still a huge warning that it may come off that way!!

“Welcome to my home.” The circus clown, or rather the powerful being that’s so poorly pretending to be one, twists his lips into a peculiar little grin. Saliva trails out from his mouth as his steel jaw slackens, eyes glassing over like a corpse’s as he loosens his hold on your hand. “Do you like my home, Kiddo? Isn’t it just great? We all float down here, y’know? Really, we do! Yes we do! Yes we do!” 

A pleasant laugh rumbles in his belly, apples of his cheeks widening as he closes his eyes with unnaturally childlike bliss. He spins around with both arms spread out beside himself and presents to you this wondrously vile place beneath the town, a place he’d been able to bring you down into with nothing more than the wink of a gleaming yellow eye. Even knowing how strong he must be, how dangerous and divine and filled to the teeth with nothing but infinite malice; you never would have imagined he’d be so fucking huge. The husband in that garage you’d met only but an hour ago seems almost diminutive now, like a small boy against the ivory and crimson cyclone raging violently before you. You find yourself backed up against a wall to keep from being struck, shoulder blades thudding gently when your bone connects with the sewage-slicked stone behind you.

At once the whirling stops. It’s as if the sound of your body bumping up against the other edge of the lair were enough to freeze him solid, enough to bring him forth from whatever bizarre trance he’d happened to have fallen under. The clown’s head drops swiftly to the side, cracking his ear against the peak of his shoulder in a way that steals the breath from your lungs, certain his neck should have snapped from the force of it.

“Tell me, Little Girl.” He croons, with that voice filled with nothing but ash. “Would you like to know when your family is going to die?”

Only an idiot would be foolish enough to dare and answer a question as insidious as that, so you don’t. You keep your mouth clammed shut, refusing to utter back a single word. Instead you only stare at him— the aged cotton of his suit, the frills around his neck, the pupils that end in perfect little slits rather than the blackened orbs of before.

“I could tell you, you know... I could tell you anything... I am the most powerful thing this world has ever seen... I can do anything that I want— anything at all. What do you think about that?”

It all seems so much brighter to you now, more visible, a gilded illumination that seems to be coming from both nowhere and everywhere all at once. There’s red in his eyes that wasn’t quite there before, bordering the yellow of his irises like a circular running saw piercing its way into still-living flesh. His cheeks pull into a smirk, the scarlet lines that adorn them appearing even sharper than they had seemed down in the darkness of the sewer below.

“I can see every one of your memories.” The clown draws on, taking a step towards you before shifting the position of his head once more. “In fact... There’s one I can see very clearly right now... Right at the back of your puny little skull.”

A short, wheezing sound comes from somewhere in his chest; it takes you a moment to realize it was meant to be a giggle. He closes even more of the distance you’d acquired between the two of you, near enough now for you to smell the sourness of his breath. 

“Do you remember your mother, Little One?”

“No.” You answer, for the first time in a long while. A gag lodges itself somewhere in your throat, and you dig your nails into the wall to keep yourself from turning your head to look away. “Something tells me you probably already know that though.” 

Surprise flickers within the being’s eyes, so brief that you almost fail to even see it. He snuffs it back out just as quickly as it had arrived, like the killing of a gnat between his fingers before revealing to you the arrowed tips of his teeth.

“Your mother loved you, you know... The way you women always love your fat little offspring. I can see her in your mind— all those bright shining moments— all the way up until that venom in her arm took her back to the weeds.”

_What the fuck did you just say to me?_

A flash of abhorrence blurs your vision. Your hands drop from their places in the cracks etched into the man-made cavern behind you, balling up into tightly-wound fists to hang by your sides. The tip of your tongue presses hard against the roof of your mouth, and you try your best to calm yourself before you say anything else that might be stupid enough to make him call off this once-in-a-lifetime deal.

A deep breath in, eyes closed to keep from having to see the self-satisfaction plastered across his face, and you trick yourself into thinking you’re composed enough to continue on. “Look, Mister—”

Interested piqued, the clown cocks a hairless brow.

“Honestly?” You begin rhetorically, shaking your head in thinly-veiled distaste. “There’s really no reason for us to drag this getting-to-know-each-other part out like this. Not to be a bitch... But I’m really just trying to hurry up and get this over with as soon as possible.”

In other words, you’re ready to power through whatever deviant activities your gracious patron has planned for the night, so that you can finally have that over-filled wallet placed safely in your hands. The sooner you get started, you reason, the sooner he’ll have his fill of you. 

Disappointed, the young clown begins to pout. His lip droops down into an unnatural point, as if somehow pulled there by a clear threaded hook. The sound of rats chittering in the distance begins to quiet, drowned out by the childlike whimper vibrating deep from the chamber of the being’s terrible mouth.

“I was only having fun with you, Little Buddy.” The clown assures you with a whine, throwing a hand over his chest to feign hurt. “Aren’t you having _fun with me?”_

“I’m about to have a panic attack— is what I’m about to have.” You answer, as boldly as you can despite the way your tongue feels like sand in your mouth. “Seriously, Mister... How am I even supposed to answer some of this shit?”

The spheres of his eyes go yellow-white as he rolls them back into his head. It’s almost like a shark breaching the surface, a flash of deadly teeth rising up over cerulean waters.

“You humans...” He snarls, words dripping with disgust. “Always so _impatient.”_

The malevolent playfulness it had once shown eases into boredom; listless, apathetic towards your presence entirely. In a sharp instant every fiber of his being vanishes, becoming absolutely nothing before reappearing all the way over at the other end of the lair. He crosses the ankles of his impossibly long legs with all the grace of a self-proclaimed king, proudly lowering himself down onto a pile of rubble and garbage as if he were resting upon the finest of thrones.

“Come here.” A gloved finger beckons you forward, prompt and unabashed. “Take off your clothes.” 

His words purl around in your cerebrum, blocking out all else like the moon drifting in front of the brilliant expanse of the sun. You raise your fingers to the hem of your rain-soaked blouse, and find it odd that it doesn’t feel like you’re undressing yourself for a stranger. You don’t know what it feels like exactly, but it certainly doesn’t feel like _that._

The clown’s eyes glow like an animal’s in the darkness, like a rodent hissing at you through the headlights of your uncle’s piece-of-shit Chevy. His gaze follows your hands to your shorts, narrowing his coal-painted lashes when you hook your fingers into the frilled band of your thong. You’d shaved for the night, just in case an offer as profitable as this were placed upon the table; so when you slide your panties down over your thighs you feel no reason to recoil in shame. Still, when the clown takes in the sight of your undressed cunt for the first time, you notice he almost looks confused. You pause for a moment, feeling a bit uneasy as he tilts his head to the side to stare at you, but shrug your shoulders when you decide to hurry and carry on. 

There’s something revoltingly rousing about stripping bare in a place as spoiled and ruined as this. The air licks at your body, still cool and damp from the rain, causing a shudder to roll up through the length of your spine. You step out from the pile of denim and cloth and lift up a knee to reach for the clasps of your heels, but before you even touch them the clown lets loose a bestial snarl.

“No. Do not touch them. I want you to leave them on.”

“Kinky.” You joke back, to try and hide how nervous you are.

Warmth blooms over the breadth of your cheeks, though for the life of you can’t even begin to understand why. You’re no stranger to the intricacies of sex, or to the desires of men when they want something pretty to dress up and fuck. It’s only here, standing in front of a stranger that looks straight out of a horror film, that you can’t seem to figure out what to do with yourself next.

“Ahem— So I uh... Wh-what do you uh... What do you want me to do now? Sir?”

It strikes you, that this being has never once revealed to you his name; though you reason that’s probably for the best. Say that he is a human being, rather than some odd specter of the night who never truly leaves this place; would you really want to know just who it is that lies hidden beneath all that stark-white paint? 

Spit begins to roll down over the front of his suit. Trails of silver darken from the contact of his frothy wet saliva, and it takes a few impatient snaps of your fingers to lock his attention back onto your face. He shakes himself out from his daze like a child shaking the sleep from his body, as animated and dramatic as you’ve ever seen him before, and the tiny bells sewn onto the frills of his sleeves give a few cacophonous rings.

He taps his fingers against his temple as if suddenly pondering over what to do with you next. A burst of firelight behind his pupils, and at last he decides what he wants you to do for him.

“Crawl.”

You don’t comply— not at first, at least. There’s glass all on the ground. There are pelts and guts from the bellies of small animals, rotting and festering and riddled with maggots. Wastewater dampens the soil lying beneath the heaps of garbage. No part of you wants anything to do with placing your bare hands and knees into any of it, but just as you’re considering refusing, his words ring out in your head.

_“I can give you anything you would like, Little Pet... Anything, anything at all...”_

Yes, that’s right; that’s the reason you’re even fucking down here right now, why you’re freezing and naked from the ankles on up. This being can give you anything— maybe even everything—so long as you do just what he asks.

Another moment of hesitation passes. Then you drop to your knees, and begin slowly making your way over towards his feet. 

You feel like a dog; some trained bitch salivating at the chance to do just whatever her owner wants her to do. It’s so far removed from the stubborn-willed woman that you are, and as you obey him without a word you can’t help but wonder just how much power he truly holds over you in this moment. Is it really only the promise of wealth— or is it something far more arcane and disturbing than you’d ever like to believe?

When your searching hands reach the base of his repugnant excuse for a throne, the clown all but beams at you. His legs open up before you, graciously wide, and satisfaction darkens the features of his otherwise handsome face. You look up into his eyes, tremor rattling through the length of your sewage-stained arm, but when you reach for the front of his pants his hand bolts out to catch you.

A gasp pierces out from between your lips, as he squeezes your wrist so hard your fingers start to curl up in response. There’s a ripple in the bridge of his nose, face scrunched up like that of a petulant child, and when at last he lets go you don’t dare to move a single muscle. 

Not even when he reaches out towards your face.

The nameless being pinches your chin between his fingers, parts your jaws wide enough for him to shove his gloved thumb past the dull tips of your teeth. His brow raises, patient, as if he’s daring for you to bite down. You don’t. All you can do is stare at him with widened eyes, like a fish waiting for its captor to dig the hook out from its mouth. He grins at your submission, and it’s the most frightening thing you’ve seen him do all night.

The clown curls his fingers in your hair, gently at first, then tightly enough to pull harshly at the tender skin of your scalp. He lazes down into his chair, all ferocity buried just below the surface, then sits back just enough so that you can begin.

This time when you reach out towards the waistband of his remarkable costume, it feels like you’re reaching into a hole at the bottom of a lake. Anxiety prickles your skin, brain spinning with thoughts of having your neck snapped if you should dare to move too quickly. Your fingertips curl carefully inside of his pants, and when at first you reach the soft stretch of flesh between his hipbones you don’t even realize you’re actually touching his skin. He’s too cold, as cold as a corpse when you trail your hand down towards the base of his cock.

What the fuck? Your breath quickens, before you remind yourself that this stranger is clearly anything else but a normal human being. He’s like a ghost of sorts; like something from a movie you would have watched as a child. _Like Beetlejuice,_ you think, and the comparison brings you an odd sense of comfort.

His dick is hard already. You thank God for that. He’s already straining up against the inside of the suit, slit weeping a darkened stain onto the cotton. He’s thick and heavy in your hand, though your memories are far too jumbled to think back on whether of not he’s the biggest you’ve ever had. Everything you’ve ever done in your entire life has all blurred together, dreams and experiences weaving in and out like the traces of ivory lines that planes leave in their wake, and for a moment you can’t help but wonder— just how long have you truly been down here?

The clown’s grip on your hair suddenly tightens. You realize you’ve been stalling, and it takes you a moment to calm yourself down before you’re able to continue.

You have to work to get him out, struggling to urge him to lift his hips up so that you can slide his pants down towards the middle of his thighs. A growl rumbles somewhere deep in his chest, rallying against his own impatience, and at last you’re able to finally draw him free.

You knew it was going to be huge, just from the feel of weighing it in your hand, but it only really hits home now that you’re readying to take it all into your mouth. It’s as pale at the painted skin of his face, big enough around that your short fingers can’t even meet your thumb when you steady your grip on the base of the shaft. You take a deep, ragged breath, and let your tongue press gently against the engorged, rose-colored head. 

Sour. In all the times of getting onto your knees for men who aren’t in your life anymore, you can’t ever remember any one of them tasting like _this._ There’s almost a decadence to it, like spun sugar at some carnival your uncle snuck the two of you into as a little girl, but it rubs raw the hard palate of your mouth when you suck it between your lips. Sweet, but also spoiled somehow. It sends a shudder through your body, still naked with your knees digging deep into trash and debris, and you feel it twitching when you run your hand up to meet against your mouth.

The clown lets out a razor-sharp hiss, and you can tell from the direction of the sound that his head is tossed back in pleasure. You take it as encouragement, moving faster up and down as you work the surprisingly delicate skin with your fingers. Every time he strikes the back of your throat your mouth grows more and more wet, spit growing thick and foamed with how hard you’re fighting back the urge to cough and gag.

Your jaw is on fire. The muscles in your wrist are screaming with overuse, lips stretched wide enough that you can already feel them cracking and and splitting open. Tears sting at your eyes, and just when you’re about to ask if you can stop he pulls you off from him, jerking your head back enough to stare up into the heat of his smoldering eyes. 

“You can do better than that.” The clown growls, as he rises up to his feet to stand over you, never once letting up on his steel hold of your hair. “In fact... I am looking through your mind— through all those dirty little memories— and I can see you doing far, far better than that.”

He waits for you to answer, eyeing your mouth as it hangs open wide, and when at last he knows you have no semblance of an answer, he presses his cock back into it instead.

With this new position comes more leverage, and the clown is far from unaware. He holds your head still as he— quite literally— fucks the tight seal of your lips. Your fingers clench uselessly at his hip, trying hard to remind yourself to breathe through your nose.

Your eyes are drenched with tears. Mascara cements your eyelashes together, making it hard to pry them open again when the urge to glance up suddenly gets the best of you. The stranger’s jaws are parted, panting, row after row of jagged teeth visible in the light spilling out from somewhere deep in his throat. That bizarre, amber radiance has returned brighter than ever; and even though you feel that you should look away you swear to God you cannot force yourself to do so. It melts your head, makes the sound of your own heartbeat almost unbearable, like a beaten drum banging loud against your ears. His all-seeing eyes flash red, iridescent, shifting around in your mind like the most frightening trip you’ve ever had in your life. A two headed dog, ripe with violence, foaming at the mouth with fangs as sharp as broken glass. A lit match pressed firm against your tongue, searing, aching, burning cherry-red, like the lipstick smeared across his face, ruining the lines of his perfect makeup. It’s only in your head, you know this, but it’s still there. All your worries are dulled, the instict to stand up and run replaced by the chanting chorus of children you cannot see.

“Swallow.”

That’s all the warning that he gives you before he comes, his thrusts stuttering and slowing to a halt. Warmth floods the confines of your mouth; like blood, like saltwater on your tongue. His orgasm lasts longer than any man’s you’ve ever seen, and with every second you’re sure it must be over he just keeps twitching forward.

Soon it becomes too much to hold in, and out of fear of choking you wrench open your jaws to let the majority of it spill in rivers down the v-line of your chin. You look up at him through the grayed tears pooling in your waterlines, desperate to be let go, but only find that he isn’t even looking. His eyes are dull and listless, apathetic as he stares at the wet stone of the wall far behind you.

The clown closes his mouth, and the golden rays suddenly fade. He loosens his grip on your hair, slowly at first, and then all at once; until you’re finally able to pull back enough to let him slip out. The crown of his dick stays connected with your lips by a trail of thick saliva. You can feel yourself being slowly freed from the odd entrancement of before, every nerve ending in your body screaming with the sensation of being bled completely dry. It’s like coming down from a line of coke at a party, the way everything around you now feels so fucking miserable and raw. You wipe your mouth clean with the back of your wrist, praying to God that the worst part of the night is finally over at last.

Above you the clown seems to be coming down from a high of his own, stretching out the length of an impossibly long arm beside himself as the other works to tuck his softening cock back into the safety of his suit. A shudder passes through his frame. He barely seems aware that you’re even still here.

Your eyes dart to your clothes, resting in a rumpled pile amongst the garbage behind you. There’s the vague desire to pull them back on, though it’s drowned by the realization that sun is still far from risen. You promised this man a night with you, and you have no doubt in your mind that he has no intention of being shorted.

“Those humans...” The clown begins, and when you turn back to look expectedly up at him, you find him standing with his hands placed firmly over the ashen bloom of cotton around his hips. “The ones whose house you visited tonight...”

“Yeah, and? What about them?”

“Would you have let them fuck you if they had wanted?”

 _If they had paid me enough for it,_ you think to yourself, before pulling your lip between your teeth and reaching under yourself to fidget with the pointed end of your heel.

“No.” You answer dishonestly, figuring it best not to say the truth of it out loud.

The clown raises his chin and glares at you over the unnaturally sharp ball of his nose.

“A lie.”

“What? You don’t know if that’s a—“

“It is a lie.” He insists, words teetering on the edge of a growl. “I can smell it on your skin... in your hair... between your legs...”

You flinch away without thinking about it, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to protect your scent from wafting towards him. Surely he’s bluffing. After all, he’s not really a God for Christ’s sake— there has to be some limit to what he can and cannot do.

“I’m really not lying.” You try one last time, just to see.

“Lie!” His eyes light up like two candles flickering in the dark. He stretches his fingers out suddenly towards you, waggling them as if to try and frighten or tease you. Maybe both. “Popcorn! Hot dogs! Candy! Pies! The filthy girl tells filthy lies!”

“Alright, _alright_ — Fuck. You got me! I definitely would have had sex with them— well, maybe just one of them— if they’d have uh... You know. Offered me everything that you did.”

“And to think I thought that what we had was _special.”_ The clown jests half-heartedly, and then slowly kneels down to join you on the ground. “Tell me, Little One... Why do you offer yourself up in this way? To me? To them?”

It isn’t curiosity in his eyes. It’s pity. You can feel it in your gut that he already knows the answer to this, and that’s he’s only asking you these questions to try and embarrass you— to try and make you feel ashamed. This is all just some sick way to pass the time until he’s finally ready to use your body again.

An explanation rests in the empty space between your jaws, meaningless and bitter. As hard as you try to ready yourself to force it out, it just doesn’t seem to work. Your tongue has turned to lead in your mouth.

Last month, your uncle stole every dime you had ever saved and vanished with it into the darkness of an indefinite bender. You’d just been let go from your job at the restaurant, and you hadn’t even unbuttoned the top of your collar yet when you’d found out about it. As you stood there in your old uniform, in that kitchen with that empty jar shaking violently in your hands, all you could do was close your eyes. All that you had ever done for that man, your own flesh and blood, and he’d taken everything you had to a pay-by-the-hour motel out in Van Buren.

”I’ve never been this bad off before.” You answer at last, not even bothering to hide the resentment in your voice. “Things have always been hard for me— for my family— but not ever like this.”

 _I’m sure you knew that though, you sadistic fuck,_ you snarl silently to no one but yourself. _I’m sure you can see that memory in my head too, and I bet it makes you feel_ good.

“The people in this town call you a whore.” The clown replies out of nowhere, so matter of factly it makes your face burn. “Did you know that? A filthy little whore, they whisper to themselves, whenever you should dare to walk past them.”

“I’m not a whore.” You snap back, clenching the muscles in your jaw. “I’ve never even let someone touch me for money, besides you. Besides tonight.”

“Ah, yes... That’s right.” The clown concedes. He locks his arms behind his back and grins, as smug as he’s ever seemed before. “You usually do it all for free.”

You wrack your brain for something to spit back at him that won’t possibly end in your untimely demise, and when you come up short of nothing the stranger lets loose an ear-shattering whoop of laughter.

He doubles forward, hands coming around to clutch at his flat belly, snickering so hard to himself that his entire body vibrates with it. It reminds you of a toy, of some broken Jack-in-the-box rattling in the corner of a child’s room. He almost looks like he’s going to be sick with it, tears filling up his eyes, until all at once he suddenly halts. His face drops back into blankness, and his jaw hangs open empty with an emotion you can’t quite discern.

“Touch yourself.” The demand comes from nowhere, flat against the pinked tip of his jarringly human tongue. 

A hand lays flat on the inside of your knee and you jerk, eliciting a full-throated growl from the being before you. It’s almost as if he _wants_ you to fear him, then feels offended when the fear doesn’t dissipate quite as quickly as he wants for it to. 

“Touch my— You mean like—?” You lower your hand down between your legs, letting it hover for a moment over the heat radiating off from you.

“Your cunt...” He amends. “Touch it.”

You hesitate. It’s so hard to do just as he commands, when only a handful of seconds ago he was purposefully trying to insult you. It almost feels like a test to see just how far you’ll let a perfect stranger push you before you inevitably snap. Before you break, snivel, and cry.

As it turns out though, when there’s money involved, you’ll let yourself get pushed pretty Goddamn far. 

“Okay, Mister. Sure thing. I’ll just uh... Yeah.”

Slowly, and a little awkwardly, you try and clear enough space behind you for you to rest comfortably up on one of your forearms. Then you press your fingers flat against the peak of your slit, rubbing in slow, half-hearted circles. 

You know this is a job. You know that if you’re going to be paid in full at the end you’re going to have to work for it; that you should be squealing and moaning, should be jerking your hand from side to side and belting out how wet and ready you are to have your pussy filled with his big fat cock, should be earning every single dime he’s going to give you. It’s no different from fucking yourself on the lagging screen of your best friend’s laptop, all those sessions with nameless old men who offer you nothing back but dead-eyed stares and tips. You know how to sell it just as good as the rest of them— so as the clown watches your movements with his all-seeing gaze, you don’t understand why you can’t even try.

He leans into you with his oddly-upturned nose sticking outright, like the snout of a pig preparing to root. His nostrils flare and he smells you, eyes narrowing, as if taking offense to the stench of your skin. 

“You are not aroused.” The stranger discerns, and the distance between his carved-in brows narrows. “What’s wrong, Little One? Aren’t you glad for the chance to fuck the most powerful thing in the world?”

Your hand stills. A deep breath fills your lungs, followed by a gulp so loud it almost hurts.

“Maybe if you—“ the words fumble against your tongue, sticking somewhere up against the roof of your mouth. You wet your lips, trying to appear far more courageous than you feel. “Maybe if you... Touched me... Instead...” 

Silence. A flicker of understanding passes through the features of his face, and it’s only now that you realize there’s light beginning to pour in from the tunnels and skylight of the cavernous lair. It’s only still violet, so soft you can hardly even see the contrast in the bright hazel gleam that seems to be coming from the clown himself, but the reminder that this night will not last forever sends a bolt of valiance to the center of your chest. The clown leans into you, forward enough that you can feel the heat of his spit-slicked teeth teasing against the swell of your cunt, and you spread your legs for him wide enough that your thighs begin to burn.

He starts at your clit. There’s no warming you up, no lavishing of kisses against the curve of your hips. He simply takes you into his mouth, teeth bracketing the sensitive nub, and sucks until your body twitches just as violently as if he’d sent a course of electricity through it instead. You can feel the curve of a smile against you, pleased and at odds with the way you’re now squirming and gasping for air. Your knees constrict the sides of his inhuman head, fingers clenching and unclenching wildly at the soil beside you.

“Jesus... Oh _God.”_

The clown lets up all at once, only to murmur, “You don’t have to call me that, Little Thing. Pennywise will do just fine.” 

He flashes you a grin, filled to the gums with nothing but venom and mirth. Only but a second passes before he’s back to working at you again, this time lapping around the edge of the crux of flesh he’d managed to bring into an achingly sensitive peak. His tongue is rough against you, textured, exploring every inch of your folds before delving down further. It takes everything within you not to buck your hips, trying to seek out the impossible suction before he rewards you again with something far better. Blood-hot pressure divides the walls of your entrance. He fucks you with his tongue, inhumanly long, thrumming against the patch of nerves behind your pelvis that makes the back of your knees sweat. He fills you in a way that makes you wonder if this truly is the devil after all.

It takes a lot for you to come. Years of fucking anyone you can just to forget how shitty your life is have made you all but numb, always chasing after a release you so rarely ever find. It’s always just out of reach, mocking you in the distance while you fake your way through it, but not now. Now you’re practically wrecked with it, legs shaking and tensing from the pressure mounting in the base of your stomach. Just when it threatens to burst, the familiar sensation of being so close it fucking hurts, Pennywise pulls suddenly away from you.

“What the fuck?” You whine, with a voice so high it could shatter glass. “I was almost _there.”_

A trail of saliva glides down the curve of your ass, tickling enough to distract you from the throbbing of your cunt as the cool air wafts against it. The clown doesn’t dignify you with an explanation, but you know without doubt that this was only just one more way for him to find pleasure in your discomfort.

“You don’t play fair.” You pant out, throwing a hand over your now heaving sweat-slicked chest. “You got to come in my mouth... I think I might have earned coming in yours. Or just... You know... Coming at all, really.” 

Pennywise straightens himself back up, and the stench of death that wafts out from his suit makes you stifle the urge to gag. He looks at you blankly, all handsome face and glowing red eyes, but there’s a sense of satisfaction about him as well. He slides his lips back over his teeth, and gleefully tells you, “You _will.”_

An intense pressure cradles your lungs, and it suddenly feels like you’re gasping for air in a room filled with thick black smoke. Your limbs go instantly numb, plagued with a tightness you can’t even begin to understand. There’s nothing touching you, not that you can see with your eyes, but when you search the area around you, you find that the walls themselves are beginning to _move._

Your hands hands fly up to claw at your throat, and instead you find them locked in a viceroy hold at your sides. Your head drops back, when suddenly it feels like you don’t have the strength anymore to try and hold it up. You expect it to land against the filth-covered ground and instead find that there’s nothing. That’s when you realize, with horror, that it isn’t the walls that are moving. It’s you.

“We all float down here!” Pennywise croons, staring up at you with his hands placed pleasantly on his knees. “Oh, yes yes yes we do! Even you, Little Pet! Even you! Even _you!”_

The skylight from the well above grows larger, an amethyst moon as the being hoists you higher into the air. He’s going to kill you. He’s going to raise you up high, high enough to touch the purpling sky above and then he’s going to drop you. Your spine will bend like the barbed tail of a scorpion, and every bone in your body will shatter into pieces.

“Let me down!” You scream, so loud your vocal cords screech and give out at the end. “Please, I don’t— I can’t—“

Kicking and thrashing out wildly against nothing, Pennywise suddenly begins to tilt you. His mind presses against every fiber of your being, lowering you down towards him as he rises up onto his boot-clad feet. The pressure drifts, down to the pit of your belly and curve of your ass, as if you’re sitting in one of those swings made for small children at a park. The stray hairs you’d missed around your ankles while shaving begin to stand on end, and it almost feels like a bind you cannot see has suddenly wrapped its way around them. Pennywise’s arcane power holds you in place, urges against the heels of your feet to spread and bend your knees up further towards your chest. He turns your body to face him, to stand nearly chest-to-chest with you as you sit frozen and suspended in air.

His face is different. It’s like the changing of a mask, one that’s far more gruesome and frightening than the one he’d worn before. There’s sin in his eyes, black and red with brimstone and fire; and as you feel yourself veering towards the edge of unconsciousness you finally realize the truth. 

“You’re a demon...”

A giggle breaks free from the walls of his chest, dark and sharp like ebony-painted glass. You want to hit him. You want to rear your fist back as hard as you can, and crack his jaw like the paint cracking at the curve of his forehead. You want to hurt him, because something in the pit of your stomach is screaming that he certainly isn’t done hurting you.

“Oh, Child.” Pennywise huffs, feigning sympathy by crinkling the outer corners of his eyes. “There are far worse things to be feared than _demons.”_

The sound of that word falling so flippantly from his mouth makes you wince. His eyes trace the squatted curves of your body, jaws opened and spilling out foul-smelling saliva all onto the frills of his chest. He looks hungry, and when he stares at your throat you can’t quite tell if he wants to kiss it, or rip it out with his teeth.

“I could tear you apart, eat out your heart.” The stranger tells you, as if you were somehow fucking wondering. “I am older than time itself, and I could show you things you’ve never even imagined. Would you like to see some things, Little Pet? Would you like me to put things in your head that make your nightmares look pleasant?”

He grins at you with that mouth full of venom, and the sight sends a rush of adrenaline through the intricate path of your veins. Have his features always been this striking beneath that opaque mask of snow-white paint? Did he look like this when he beckoned to you from gutter?

Are these thoughts even really yours?

You look to his face, desperately trying to search it for something— anything— to try and figure out what he’s planning on doing with you next, when a blur of movement below his waist catches your eye. He’s touching himself. His cock has bulged up against the inside of his suit, and he’s pawing at it absentmindedly as he watches you struggle in his telekinetic hold. The sight should abhor you, should make bile rise in your throat at the disgusting implication laid out before you, but it doesn’t. All you can feel is relief at the fact that despite this malevolent display of prowess, the deal is still very much on. He isn’t readying himself to kill you. He’s readying himself to fuck you.

The rigidity in your muscles suddenly loosens. You feel like you can finally breathe again, chest heaving against the unseeable binds around you. Nearly every part of your body from the neck down is locked forcibly in place, and you can’t tell if your heart is beating this hard because of the pressure, or because there’s something so strangely alluring about the sight of the clown touching himself right in front of you.

“I’ve never—“ Your voice catches, too small and too dry to force out your words. “Fucked... anyone like this... Tied up and— and not able to move...”

The clown smiles.

“I have.”

Two long fingers, still veiled by the fabric of his gloves, wipe across the weeping entrance of your cunt, making you yelp and jerk firmly against the nothingness around you.

“I love taking you Earth-Women in this way.” The malevolent being croons, and admires the damped stain you leave behind like an artist admiring his canvas. “Especially the ones like _you,”_ he adds, “Little Pet... Dripping w _et...”_  

He leans in forward towards your chest, curling his thumb and forefinger beneath the swell of one of your breasts. Your body vibrates with need, wanting more than anything to arch up into his touch. This man you don’t even know, who’s only treated you with nothing but violence and disdain, who may not even be a man at all; and it takes everything in you not to break down and ask him to hurry.

When the question comes out it doesn’t even feel like your own, “How many women? How many women have you— have you ever brought down here in this place? Like me?”

A shrug passes through the broad frame of his shoulders. “More than I would ever bother to count.”

Not a moment passes when he takes your nipple into his mouth, suckling with just as much vigor as he’d done with your clit— only this time when you close your eyes to melt into it you can feel the sharp sting of his fangs burying their way into your skin. You let out a curse and a sharp cry of alarm, hating the way the urge to lean into the pleasure only rewards you with a stab of white-hot pain. He pulls back suddenly away from you, and this time you can’t tell whether it’s lipstick smeared around the edges of his lips, or if it’s blood.

 _Asshole,_ you think to yourself, flexing the muscles in your arms against the restraints.

He circles you, like a predator eyeing up a challenger in his wake. All you can do is follow him with your eyes, trembling when he passes out from your line of vision. You can feel the vague heat of him on your back, the tangerine spheres that adorn his suit tickling against the center of your spine.

“Look at you,” Pennywise muses, “Coming just as undone as all the others... Oh, how I just love fucking women like you... Tell me,” he whispers, lets a hand trail to your clit, the other kneading firmly against the plump flesh of your ass, “Are you going to beg me for it too?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you can feel the blood boiling behind your face from how hard you’re trying not to.

“Virgins.” Pennywise huffs, like he’s rolling his eyes behind you.

“Fuck you, I’m not— I’m not a virgin.”

A laugh rumbles behind his ribcage. It vibrates through the length of your back, until he eases up off from you enough to start tugging off his suit. Heat licks at your skin, the warmth of his body radiating like a fever when he rids himself of his blouse only to press right back hard against you. His hands return to the mounds of flesh at the base of your spine, arched out towards him so graciously, dying to feel the warm head of his cock slip between your swollen lips, but even as you allow yourself to whine for it, it still does not come. Instead he splays out his fingers, stretching closer until his thumb reaches the tight ring of muscles that hides between your cheeks.

“You are a virgin.” The clown amends, pressing forward. “Here.”

Panic grips you. It widens your eyes, sends you wriggling against your invisible restraints as the gloved tip of his nail dives unforgivingly inside of you. It’s too rough, too foreign, spurring on a harsh spasm of pain that makes you gasp for air and try to push him out.

Pennywise draws out the tip of his thumb, fabric pinching up inside of you before finally pulling free, though it does absolutely nothing to relieve you. His hips, which had only just been pressed firmly against your ass, now shift back enough for him to slide his bottoms down the length of his thighs.

 _“Anything that I want.”_ The clown had told you, and you had blindly agreed. _“Anything— anything at all.”_

“Please.” You wheeze, shaking your head back and forth. “Please I don’t— I don’t think that I can—”

A rush of thick, warm drool pours over the ridges of your spine; trailing down to the painfully spread cleft of your ass. He’s hard as stone, the length of his cock sliding against you, back and forth, fucking himself between your cheeks the way you’ve seen men do in those old VHS tapes your uncle was always meaning to throw away. Almost-moans spill from his chest, and suddenly he stills, movements quickening before taking himself in hand and dragging the tip down to nudge against your asshole.

“You can.” Pennywise assures you, far more cold than you think he’d meant for it to sound. “You _are.”_

It splits you open. You can feel everything, every agonizing inch as he breaches you with the flared head of his dick. It isn’t dry, isn’t ripping you open like the dull end of a blade, but the stretch still sears you— sends a flash of red and white light behind your eyes. A gasp chokes free from your throat. Your mind crumples in on itself, arms straining instinctively to wrap themselves around your body and failing.

 _He’s ruining you,_ you think to yourself, and the thought makes you clamp down your teeth on a scream.

He’s ruining you— and worse?

You’re letting him.

Air wafts hot at the back of your neck, blowing at your hair with that familiar, putrid breath. “Ah yes— Be afraid.” The clown hisses, before licking a wet stripe of saliva over the shell of your ear. “You feel so much _tighter_ when you’re afraid.”

Pennywise brings his hand around to the front of you again, dragging down over your belly so slowly you wonder for a moment if he’s going to try and gut you. Instead, his fingers venture lower, finding your clit and rolling it between the soft cotton of his gloves. The pleasure, as dull as it may be, rallies violently against the pain, and as he starts to withdraw into shallow little thrusts, you even find them beginning to mingle.

 _This is really happening,_ you think, when you realize just how deep he’s moving in and out of you. You’re really taking it— really letting an unfamiliar being fuck you in your most sacred place without a word or breath of protest.

“Oh— and you’re doing so _well._ You’re such a good little thing; so beautiful... So pliant.”

Pennywise encourages you as he goes, as if this is nothing, as if he fucks women in the ass with his coke-bottle cock all the time without issue— and for all you know maybe he does. He rolls his hips with ease, pulls out just far enough each time that he nearly slips out. Every drive home into the heat of your body is more forceful than the last, until you’re gasping and writhing and watching your fingers curl up down at your sides.

By now the agony has wilted to nothing more than a dull ache. Tears well up in your eyes, and you try with everything you have to lean into the intoxicating motion of his hand on your clit. Your cunt has never felt so empty, but when he slides a long, gloved finger inside of you it suddenly feels too full. 

“I can feel _everything_ like this— through that soft wall of your tasty pink flesh. Every beat of your tender heart... Every inch of me moving in and out of your body...”

“Fuck, yeah, _fuck_ — your finger it— feels go good.”

“Every tight flutter of muscle...” Pennywise laughs softly, leans in to press his jaw against the curve of your cheekbone. “I think you might just be one of the tightest I’ve ever had.”

Pleased with your inability to answer, to offer back anything else but loud hapless moans; the clown readjusts his grip and starts pounding into you like the tempered beating of a steady heart. Sickly sweet pleasure blooms, unfurls, unwinds; and you can’t understand why something like this is staring to feel so good— how something like this could ever even begin to feel good. Your spine arches like a hissing cat’s, doing everything in your power to try and deepen his thrusts. Every pump of its cock inside of you sends a warm burst of stars to the pit of your belly, and you can feel your clit aching swollen and untouched again between his too-gentle movements.

“I need to come.” You choke out; when your vision starts to blur, your own juices dripping down over the inside of your thigh. “Please, sir, God, fuck— Just— Please let me come... Please.”

An enormous hand wraps its way around your throat, squeezing just at the edges, and turns your head. His ear presses warm against the shell of your ear, breath tickling with every ragged gasp in and out from his chest.

“I think you can come from this...” Pennywise breathes, drawing out and slamming into a place within you that makes you shudder and groan. “Nasty little thing like you? Desperate— yowling for it in the streets like a cat writhing in heat? I think you can come from me fucking you here... In your filthiest of holes... Or else,” he pauses with a giggle, “I don’t think you deserve to come at all.” 

Your body goes scarlet. Mouth hanging open stupidly, the only sounds you can seem to force out during this new angle are sharp whines and staccato moans. A demon inside of you wishes you could break free from his telekinetic hold, could brace your knees on either side of his waist and bounce yourself until your toes curl so hard they fucking cramp— but all you can do is take it. You take what he gives you; wordlessly, greedily, as much of a hapless whore as you’ve ever aspired to be.

Is it even possible to come like this? You think you might. Pleasure furls at the pit of your belly, rushing liquid fire through the thick arteries in your legs. You can feel it rising again, a damn so close to bursting you can taste the iron of it on your tongue, but in the end you should have known better than to think it would ever be that easy. The sun, as close as it may be to it now, has still yet to rise; and Pennywise doesn’t seem the type to let his payments go unrequited.

He rips himself out of you so quickly it steals the breath from your lungs, and he severs his hold on you so cleanly that all you can do is brace for the impact when you slam brutally down against the ground beneath you. 

Your body crumples in on itself, all your bones replaced with rubber now that you’ve been liberated from the uncomfortable position he’d been keeping you in for so long. Pain sings through your knees and shins, where you’d taken the brunt of the fall. A part of you wonders if this is now suddenly over, if he’d somehow finished without a word and is now ready to free you from his home beneath the storm drain, but the sudden gripping of his hands over your hips tells you that you’re wrong.

You can’t help but question, as he forces you forward onto your hands and knees in the dirt, if it’s ever felt this good to be wrong before.

Pennywise’s fingers curl deep into your flesh as he kneels down behind you, so possessively that you can already imagine the blue-black stain his handprints will leave in their wake. He raises you up to meet his height; clumsily, hastily, as if he can’t bear to waste another second without being inside of you. You grit your teeth and brace yourself for the feeling of that initial breach, the sliding of his cock back deep into your ass, and instead feel him lowering his head towards the neglected entrance of your cunt.

“Ah, fuck, yes, Pennywise— Do it— Do it right there.” You groan, even though a part of you knows he likely would have just done it anyway. “Fuck me right there.”

One swift motion leaves you filled. You can feel him so much better this way; every vein of his cock, every slick movement that drives him deeper inside of you than you ever imagined you’d be able to take. He presses himself flush against your ass, sliding his hands up and down the curves of your sides as though admiring for the first time the shape of your body before him.

Admiring how much you feel like a human.

His fingers on your hips threaten to shatter your bones, thrusting forward like an animal in the dirt. Breath on your back, a fine mist of sour drool; you can feel him snarling and panting violently behind you. It isn’t like being fucked by a man anymore, some magical clown-dressed being. It’s like being taken by a beast— by whatever it is you’d thought him to be when you’d first seen his eyes glowing in the darkness of the gutter.

“All those other boys who had been here before me,” Pennywise snarls, “Were they better than me?” 

You don’t answer; you can’t. Fireworks light up the darkness behind your eyelids, body singing— screaming— with the unbearable need to release. It hits you, that you’re now free again to move and squirm as you please, but when you drop forward to shift your weight enough to bring a hand down to your clit, he snatches your wrist, and pins your arm painfully behind the small of your back.

From here you can’t even lift your head enough to sound formidable, and the savageness of his thrusts grind the side of your face into the hardened ground beneath you. “Fuck you.” You croak weakly, deliriously, and the being does nothing but laugh.

You bite your lip until you hear a faint pop, and at once you taste the copper tang of your own blood when it slicks your teeth. It spills down your chin, dripping, oozing— salting the air until the clown bends over forward to wrench your neck back just enough to lick your face clean. You watch as his pupils black out the scarlet rings of his eyes, as if your blood were laced with heroin, and when he drops you back down he fucks into you harder than ever before.

You turn further onto your shoulder, staring back to watch the furled features of his face as he near-grimaces with the effort of slapping his hips against you. The suit is gone now, from all that you can see. You trace the stark-white expanse of his chest, the deep valley carved out between his collarbones. He looks so young to you now, under the ethereal cloak of death and horror, and you wonder how old this body is truly supposed to be. His eyes drop down from the smear of red on your bottom-lip to the place where your bodies are joined, and the muscles in his stomach suddenly tighten.

“Are you going to come?” You ask earnestly, and the voice that comes out of you doesn’t even sound like a person’s anymore.

Pennywise answers you by staring into your eyes, and if you were a fool you’d probably think it looked like he were about to cry. His brows raise perfectly into a look of desperation, the blacked-out whites of his eyes glistening like the glass window of that church you used to have to walk home past at night. He nods at you, the most genuine gesture he’s shown to you all night, and reaches forward to snake his hand between your legs.

A part of you wonders if you were already coming before his fingers even touch you. He rubs at you violently, so hard you can feel your body jerking against him to recoil from the overstimulation, and when at last your orgasm hits it’s like a bolt of summer lightning. You come so hard you think you might die; the hand on your clit relentless in its movements, dick slamming hard against that mind-numbing patch of nerves inside of you. He fucks you through it; until it’s all you can feel, all you can see, filling up every fiber of your being with gorgeous yellow light.

Silence falls over the lair, all the rats and insects seemingly vanishing as Pennywise readies to come. The only sounds left behind are the lewd, wet noises from your cunt around his cock, and the sharp puffs of air as you fight against him to keep yourself breathing. A hand moves to grip around the base of your skull, like a bred cat being held by the scruff of her neck. It holds you in place, as he suddenly forces himself so deep inside it feels like something may break inside of you. The clown roars and follows you over the edge without hesitation, coming just as hard as he’d come in your mouth; twitching and throbbing for what feels like minutes up against the walls of your cunt.

His body doesn’t collapse over on top of you when he lets himself slip out; you’re thankful enough for that. Instead he falls back into a sitting position behind you, wiling his suit back into place and admiring the trail of his seed when some of it begins to leak back out. A part of you knows you should feel alarmed— that he didn’t even bother to pull out— but all you can do is bury your hands in your arms and groan.

You don’t even register the fact that he’s speaking to you, murmuring about what a good little human you were for him tonight, how you earned everything he’s going to give you.

Swollen and aching in every hole that you have, you run your tongue over your lips and try to ready yourself to stand up. You shift your weight forwards to gain enough leverage, and a piece of trash digging into your knee pierces deep into your skin. With a yelp of pain you reach down to grab it and toss it away, but when your fingers find and wrap around it, you know at once what it is.

“Oh.” You stare at it for a moment, the enormous bone gripped between your paper-white knuckles before gently setting it back down onto the ground. “Oh.”

In the dim light bleeding in from the morning sun outside, you can now fully see the extent of the horrors that surround you. Most of what you’d once thought was only litter and garbage, are actually all just bones as well.

Bones, shoes, and articles of clothing that look like they’ve been shredded by the teeth of something terrible. Your eyes go to the clown’s mouth again, to the saliva pooling over the curve of his lip.

 _“How many women have you brought down here?”_ You’d asked innocently, and he’d answered you. It doesn’t feel as if he’d lied about it, but it also doesn’t feel like he’d only brought them down here for a paid-in-full fuck anymore.

Slowly, as slowly as you‘ve ever done anything before in your life, you rise up onto your violently wobbling knees. You seek out your clothes and pull them all on, cringing at how wet and cold they still are from being out in the rain.

“So uh... Thanks, you know, for the uh— for the surprisingly amazing fuck... But I um... I think I’m just uh... Just gonna head back on up to my— to my place now... and get on out of your hair.” The stranger eyes you with a yellow glare, tilting his head to the side as you pick out a tunnel that seems to be the most well-lit. “You can keep the money, or— or whatever it all was you’d promised me... and uh... You know, m-maybe a— maybe another time we can try to do this ag—“

The sight of the clown standing just in front of you again when you turn around steals the breath from your lungs. He hadn’t even moved, just willed himself into that exact spot. Your heart rises up in your chest, hugging yourself tight with your arms. He bares his teeth at you, serrated fangs taking the place of the rabbit teeth from before.

You take a step back, and he follows you. The tension in his broad shoulders rises, and when he lifts his hand again you find his glove stretching and bursting at the seams. In place of human skin now lies a dark, mangled expanse of coal-black flesh; and talons as long and sharp as an enormous bird of prey. He reaches out towards your cheeks, but before he even makes contact you drop back down to your knees.

In the scheme of it all it really shouldn’t matter. Your life means about as much to the world as the life of one of those rats squealing deep in the tunnels, and you’ve never been entirely too attached to it yourself. You knew when you set out to go to that strange man’s house earlier today that there was a chance you wouldn’t leave with your life; but also know that being shot in the head or strangled in a garage are far better fates than being eaten alive in the heart of the sewer. Pennywise’s threats were anything but empty. He’s an eater of men, and from the looks of the tiny rust-spattered shoes sprinkled all throughout the expanse of the lair, he’s an also an eater of children. 

“Please don’t hurt me. Oh fuck, just—P-Please, I— I did everything you wanted and I don’t— I-I-I don’t have any—“

“Why do you do that?”

“Wh-why do I— Wh-why do I do—?”

“Beg.” Pennywise reiterates, and cocks his head to the side. “Why do you do that? It will not help you down here.”

“Oh, God.” You whimper, shielding your face with your hands to keep from seeing whatever horror awaits you.

A dark, whooping laugh erupts from between his jaws. It only serves to frighten you even more, making you dig your palms into your eye sockets hard enough that color begins to swirl in the darkness. You start to cry, hard, before he reaches out to you with that cancerous hand to grab hold of your forearm and tears it violently away.

“Enough of that!” The clown hisses, and forces you to look upon the fire smoldering in his eyes. 

It jerks you up onto your feet again as if you were weightless, leaving you to wobble on your blister-ridden heels before you’re finally able to regain your balance. Your bones feel like they’re rattling together, practically vibrating with fear and confusion. You’ve already offered yourself up on a platter by coming down here. Hell, you even went as far as to unwrap yourself for him; gave him a blowjob and let him fuck you in the ass and come inside of your pussy to work up his hunger. What more could he possibly want from you now?

At first your tongue won’t work, but when it does you ask him the only question that’s racing through your head. “Are you going to kill me?”

Pennywise smiles. He takes a dramatic step towards you like a performer on a stage, and though you try your hardest not to back away it’s simply no use. The sight of him towering over you is enough to make your head swim, every ounce of instinct in your otherwise reckless mind screaming for you to run.

“I came here with a lust for blood, and for Earth-women.” He answers you, graciously.

You squeeze your eyes shut again; you can’t help it. Intestines coiling up inside of you like a snake awakening beneath your ribs, you dig your nails into your palms and pray for this all to be over fast. 

Something cool presses out onto your belly and you pull away, expecting to feel the sting of his claws piercing deep into your liver at any moment. A beat passes, and when you open your eyes you see not talons, but gloved fingers splayed wide beneath the wallet it had offered to you before. 

“Lucky for you, Little Pet, I was only craving one of those things tonight.”

Your eyes widen. You stare at its outstretched hand with awe, and everything feels like nothing but an odd dream to you once more. Searching his face for any signs of malevolence, for any sign that this is all some last final and sick joke; you find nothing.

“That couple missed out on their chance to fuck you— a deep loss indeed.” Pennywise comments, with a frown that’s betrayed by the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “Such a shame they should have so many raucous little children.”

You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, numb from the tip of your ears to your toes as you reach out and take the wallet out of his hand. It’s heavy in your grasp, bursting at the seams with more money than you’ve ever held in your life. 

“All of it?” You ask, as your arm begins to shake.

“All of it.” The clown answers. “And if you should ever need more,” he begins, before gesturing around the expanse of the cavern, “you know where exactly where I will be.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “Hot-dogs! Popcorn! Candy! Pies!” line is from another Stephen King tale, just reworded! It’s called “The Man in the Black Suit”!


End file.
